


A Body's Heat

by Yina_Ke



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A thing I wrote that went into a million directions, And also smut, Angst and Humor, First Time, Friendship, Gratuitous LotR references, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Motel California Fic, Prompt Fic, Sexual Content, Stiles is a good friend, Things I will regret in the morning, Werewolf depression idek, friend sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 06:47:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yina_Ke/pseuds/Yina_Ke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles wonders if it's a werewolf thing or a Scott thing, the fact that what Scott seems to want and need the most is <i>touch.</i></p>
<p>Post-Motel California, S03E06.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Body's Heat

**Author's Note:**

> This is set about a week after Motel California, so yeah, it'll spoil you if you haven't heard yet what went down in that episode. 
> 
> This assumes that Derek did decide to keep his survival a secret for a while longer, that Scott and Stiles still don't know that he lives, and that the Scoobies all got home to Beacon Hills safely after their trip.
> 
> Oh, and there's sex. Maybe. We're squabbling about the definition right now.

Stiles is suprised, but not as surprised as he could have been when Scott changes. It's subtle enough that he's sure that most people don't even notice; Scott's jaw is locked just a little tighter, his smiles are just a little more forced, his eyes just one step more distant. Stone-walled, somehow, some of the innocence bound and sent off and paid for in fatigue and dark bags scored under his eyes.

It's a bit like Scott's started off as a level 1 good foot soldier who's levelled up to dark warrior in those online MMORPG's they used to play, only with no way to pause the stupid game or reverse the levelling.

But Stiles isn't as surprised as he could have been, because he's has known since he was pretty young that people dealt with trauma differently. Around the time that Stiles lost his mother, there was another girl at school who also lost hers. Back then, Stiles found it interesting, even intriguing, to sit and observe sometimes, to let his eyes linger just a little bit longer when she hurried past with bloodshot eyes and unwashed hair and a noticeable tremble in her hands when she clutched her books to her chest. He saw her talk to her friends on campus, watched as one of her friends brushed back a tear-streaked lock of hair behind her ear, gazed as the tear drops tangled off her reddened nose, and Stiles felt nothing.

Instead, he hardened. He swallowed it down, sharpened the prick of his sarcasm to spires, developed the dichotomy that is his current world view, where there's Scott and his father and Lydia and then there's  _everyone else,_ and who mattered and who didn't cut into sharp focus and hasn't lost any since.

Scott's not been through the same as Stiles has, as that girl has, but it's similar in more ways than it isn't. Scott's floundering, caught between the rock of hardening and the creak of breaking, and Stiles isn't worried about _losing_ him, but Scott's mind is not as buoyant as it once seemed, not like it was before when a single push could let it drift.

So, Stiles doesn't question it when Scott drops by in the middle of the afternoon, unannounced. Doesn't comment on Scott's glassy eyes and the weights at the corners of his lips. Stiles only looks at how the afternoon light drapes over Scott's shoulders and tints his skin golden, and pauses for a few beats, leaning against the door frame before he finally says, “Yeah, come in, not like you haven't been here before,” and steps aside.

They lie down and watch _Lord of the Rings,_ because they've already watched _Star Wars_ and most of _Star Trek_ twice since they've come back, and they've long since decided that werewolf flicks are in proper poor taste considering the circumstances. Stiles makes his usual cracks during the movie, comments on Liv Tyler's looks and the epic battle choreography and how well it's aged, and drowns them both in idle talk and a stream of words so Scott doesn't have time to think. When Stiles comes back from the kitchen after making them a bowl of popcorn, Scott's just lying there on his back with an arm thrown over his face and Middle Earth uniformly forgotten.

Stiles wonders if it's a werewolf thing or a Scott thing, the fact that what Scott seems to want and need the most is _touch_.

Because while Scott has been more reticent, more withdrawn, he doesn't move back when Stiles climbs on the bed beside him, places the popcorn bowl between them, and lets their feet touch. Scott moves  _toward_ Stiles, rather, mumbling something under his breath that Stiles can't quite catch and pushing the bowl of popcorn up along the sheets and away so he can wrap an arm around Stiles and pull him closer, until they're touching, chest to chest. Scott's not meeting his eyes, has his mouth drawn into a stubborn line, his eyes cast at the sheets, but Stiles thinks he understands, a little.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, mostly to fill the silence. He clears his throat, takes a breath. “I take it Eowyn's not your type?”

That  _does_ finally draw a chuckle from Scott's lips, and he tilts up his head to meet Stiles's eyes.

Stiles stares into Scott's eyes, large and dark and framed by thick black lashes, and something in Stiles's body, lower than neck but above his groin, gives a bit of a  _jolt_. Stiles licks his lips, says, “I mean, I forgot, no one's your type but Allison,” and regrets it pretty much as soon as he does.

Scott just shrugs, but has the decency to sound sorry when he says, “I guess I'm not in the mood for movies right now.”

And Stiles supposes that's fair. He lets Scott's fingers curl at the small of his back, lets him place another hand on his waist, and it's only a rather minimal part of Stiles that is offended at the fact that he has the girly cuddle position here.

Stiles opens his mouth to say something, because Stiles finds it tempting to talk when he's not sure what he's supposed to do, but then he stops and swallows it down instead. He audibly shuts his mouth again and grins just a bit at Scott when he sends him a quizzical look.

This isn't the first time, after all, that Scott has come to his room only to hug and relax. They used to cuddle more when they were children, when they were ten or eleven, right up until they grew older and expectations and puberty and other things ground away the simplicity of affection. They've done it more recently, too, since Scott has started showing up early and staying late and Stiles's pillows and blankets have started to smell of him.

It's just a bit different now, all of it.

Silence settles in between them, though, quiet and comfortable. Scott's breathing is even, his eyes are closed, his eyelashes dark against his skin. Stiles finds that it's him who scoots a little closer this time, that it's him who seeks the proximity. Scott obliges him, wrapping an arm around his torso and pulling him in until they can't get any closer. Dry heat drenches the front of Stiles's shirt where they touch; moist heat whisks against his cheek where Scott is breathing against him. Stiles peeks up at Scott, wets his lips again, and stays quiet.

For a while. “If,” he begins, then takes an immediate pause. Stiles is good with words only when it counts, only when he has to be and someone's ( _Scott's_ ) life depends on him choosing the right words in the right moment, but time allows for insecurity, and insecurity either chops up his words _or_ floods the gates and makes them spill out in torrents. He's not good at this, but he should try, _has_ to try, so he says, “If you want to talk about it, you know - It's not like I'd not be able to do that, or anything.”

Scott's eyes flutter open. They're close enough right now that they take up most of Stiles's vision. “Talk about what? 

“You know.” Stiles shifts. Or rather, attempts to; he abandons the endeavor once he realizes that he and Scott are just too damn close together. “What happened, and all. I mean, you know what I mean, when things started to go really _American Horror Story_ , and..” ( _The part where you gave up_.) “And... then you know, in front of the motel, and -” ( _The part where I said I needed you._ ) “And what I, well, told you, you remember...”

_(The part where I implied that I'd rather die than be without you.)_

Stiles has been told that he has bulldozed all over social cues before. Scott, though, he knows well enough to see the _signs_.

“Or... you know? _Not_ ,” Stiles says, slaps on a fake-smile that he hopes and _hopes_ doesn't look quite as exaggerated as he fears it does. Scott's just looking at him with his eyebrows drawn together and a sharp frown cut across his forehead, and Stiles scoots back just a bit, but not enough to severe the skin contact.

“... Hm.” The frown eases from Scott's face, and he looks down, pressing his cheek against the pillow. His skin looks darker than usual against the sheets.

Stiles has always liked the tone of Scott's skin. Stiles has always liked most _anything_ about Scott, and even when he hasn't it didn't matter one bit because Scott's always been _there._

“Well. I guess I haven't thanked you yet,” Scott says. “For – yeah.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “But hey, I mean – of course, it's a matter of course, and well there was one 'of course' too many, but _the thing is_ – like, how do you expect me to deal with all the supernatural shit without you, yeah?”

Scott chuckles at that.

Stiles shifts a bit closer, echoing the chuckle. “Yeah. I mean – it's always been the Scott and Stiles show, right? I mean that's what it was from the start, and then I guess it became the Scott and Stiles _and Werewolves_ show, but hey, come on, we're both genre-savvy enough to see that the werewolves are really just clever cameos, and, really, it's about _us_. Right, Scotty?”

Scott doesn't seem as impressed by Stiles's speech as he hoped he would be. There's traces of the look on his face that he sometimes wears when he can't decide if he's amused by Stiles or a little skeptical of him – that look right there, with the corners of his lips turned up a bit, eyebrows lowered – only that today, it's weary. Not completely freed of the fatigue that seems to cling to him since that day.

( _But Stiles has known since he was very young that_ -)

Then Scott shrugs, his lips twitch into a tentative smile, and he surges forward to brush their lips together.

A moment, then two, and Scott parts their lips with a breath, after what was more of a _peck_ than a kiss. “There was more,” Scott says, and there's some energy back in his face right now, and he barrels on even as Stiles is still distracted by the buzz on his lips. “There was more. Allison, and I – saw things, and they made me think that I... was...”

Stiles can feel a smile on his lips. “Lachrymose?”

Scott blinks. A second. Two. Then his face brightens. “I know that one: sad, tearful, weepy...” He pauses. “ _No_ , that's not what I meant, Stiles, _ugh_.”

“At least you'll remember 'lachrymose' now,” Stiles says dryly.

“No, but I meant like, I felt like...”

“Crepuscular?" Stiles suggests.

Scott frowns, pushing his lower lip forward just a little. “What's that?”

Stiles can't help it any longer: his lips snag back and release a couple of short, barked laughs. “Fuck if I know, it just, it just, it popped into my head. Funny word, though, isn't it?” Stiles feels light-headed suddenly, whether from the peck or the talking or the speech he just gave Scott, the lingering embarrassment, he doesn't know. He doesn't know much at all right now other than that he feels good, knows nothing much at _all_ until the world spins and spins, and then kicks into crystalline (hah, _another_ SAT word) focus.

He's on his back now, with Scott lingering on top of him.

“Stiles.” There's an edge to Scott's voice, but no real anger.

“Scott,” Stiles says. “What's the definition of _that_ , huh?”

Scott pauses, leans in a little closer. “It's my _name_.”

“Yeah.” Stiles inhales, and exhales with a stuttery laugh. “Our Scott. The leader.” He trails off. “And everything else.”

Scott's still on top of him. He doesn't budge.

Stiles used to think that Scott attracted attention naturally. Used to think that he was a bit like atoms with all those electrons buzzing around, the core of neon, maybe, or mercury. Effortless charm where Stiles is still awkward, sweet where Stiles is abrasive. Scott, their Scott, and his Scott.

And apparently, Scott-who-doesn't-seem-to-be-budging Scott.

Stiles wets his lips, stifles his amusement, makes his voice go somber and serious again. “You know, that thing with Derek, it's not...” He tries to say it as gently as he can, which isn't easy since Stiles isn't good at the soothing talk thing, but he flattens his voice as best as he can. “He's not in your pack -”

“Don't,” Scott says. Just that one word, but it's firm enough to stop Stiles in his tracks.

Stiles exhales through his nose. “... All right. Too, too soon, eh? All right. Hey, I'm sorry, like maybe I should've just kept my fucking opinions to myself, and I know you're not like me. You want to protect everyone, and you're always trying, trying to do the right thing.” He is quite possibly talking too much. “I just -”

Scott leans down to give him another kiss. Harder this time. “Just take the thanks for now, yeah?”

“I – okay.” Stiles licks his lips. “No more saying anything, broadcast offline, Stiles show over. Yeah.”

It's not the first time that Scott has kissed him; there have been several times throughout the past year or so. The first time, Stiles remembers very well, was when Scott realized he'd almost killed him when he'd been all wolfed-out, and he'd grabbed Stiles by the jaw and hauled him in for a grateful, wet smack right on the lips. Several occasions followed, pecks and kisses, fast and quick with only a bit of tongue, and only that one time.

It doesn't bother Stiles. They've been friends for so long they're well aware where they stand with each other, that it doesn't mean what it might if Stiles weren't his best friend.

That doesn't quite explain why Scott leans in for another kiss. Stiles has his lips parted and it's wetter than usual, and there's the solid weight of Scott on top of him – on a _bed_ – to go along with it. Stiles might've let out a gasp, he's not sure; if he did, it was swallowed by Scott, because he's suddenly _there_ , there's a tongue rubbing against his, wet and insistent. Stiles is suddenly pretty grateful that gasps aren't the only sounds that get swallowed during kisses.

When Scott withdraws his tongue for a moment, the air rushes out of Stiles's mouth. “I -” Then there's more lips and tongue, and Stiles's spine straightens. He hears the echo of his own heart reverberate in the shell of his ears, and he thinks it goes a bit like,  _badum, badum, badum, badum._

Scott breaks is the one to break the kiss, staring down at Stiles out of wide eyes. “No?” It comes out almost harshly, sharpened by – something. “I just -”  
  
“It's, it's fine,” Stiles says, and only realizes when he says it that he means it. “It's cool, man, for real. Go on, yeah.”  
  
If this is what Scott needs, Stiles is good with it. It _feels_ good, anyway, and it isn't as awkward as it could be, and Scott is physical, always has been, and _touch_ is the language he understands best. “You'd get a great score if they they measured physical SAT's of some sort," Stiles says. A beat. “'Kay, forget I said that.”  
  
Anyone else probably would've rolled their eyes at that. Scott's maybe not even heard it, or else is too used to it to care, because he's leaned down and is kissing Stiles again, and it's between the second and the third peck that Stiles decides _to hell with it,_ and just wraps his arms around Scott, pulling him closer. He enjoys it, enjoys the slide of their tongues the slick heat of Scott's mouth, the nip of his teeth. Stiles gives back as much as he can, unwilling to be submissive in this; he matches the speed of Scott's mouth, chases Scott's tongue with his own, gives it as much force as he gets. He is only half-aware of how his body reacts, doesn't even notice at all how he instinctively thrusts up against Scott, but he knows he must have because what he _is_ aware of is that when his groin meets Scott's thigh, he --  
  
Freezes.  
  
Scott stops, breaks the kiss with a wet smack, and blinks down at Stiles.  
  
For some inane reason, Stiles feels like he has to defend himself. “I'm _sixteen_ , okay?” he sputters. “Inappropriately shaped _kitchen utensils_ make me hard.”  
  
Scott grins and says, “I didn't say anything,” and _ah_ , there it is: that lopsided grin of his, courtesy of his crooked jaw. “And I don't mind.”  
  
“Oh.” Stiles slumps back against the mattress. “Okay, then. Yeah.”  
  
Stiles gazes up at Scott.  
  
Somewhere behind them, _The_ _Lord of the Rings_ is still playing. Stiles idly thinks that that must have been some pretty A-grade making out if he was able to tune that out like that, 'cause ignoring _Lord of the Rings_ would be pretty blasphemous otherwise.  
  
Scott leans in again, brushes his lips against Stiles's mouth. Scott's hands travel downward, over Stiles's shirt down to his navel, circles down along his side and moves up again, except -  
  
That's only one hand on his chest right now. The other is rubbing against his cock, and Stiles jerks in surprise, only at the very last minute reins in a squeak, and very nearly chokes on his own saliva.  
  
Scott pauses. Waits for Stiles to make another move, to rip his hand away or grind into it, or possibly to say something, but Stiles can't think of anything to say that wouldn't be enormously awkward right now, so he just sinks back. Their lips are barely touching now, fluttering against each other in butterfly kisses with each breath.

A rush of sudden, sharp clarity washes over Stiles. His eyes are wide, and Stiles looks at Scott and Scott looks at Stiles, and Stiles says, “Will it be awkward?”

Scott considers that. “You think so?” and bless Scott McCall, sincere about everything and anything, including the entire of moral and ethical paradigms used to determine the correct answer to whether or not he should probably be touching his best friend's dick.

“Well,” Stiles says. “I suppose maybe the fact that we're having this conversation while you have your hand on my cock is already _sufficiently_ awkward.”

“We've done it before,” Scott points out, pressing another kiss to Stiles's lips, and squeezing down there. “Like, dozens of times.”

Stiles hates how the sound he just let out was dangerously close to a moan already, but fuck, it feels awesome. “Yeah, but _next_ to each other, not _to_ each other, dude. That's different. Like, there's a difference to be spotted.”

“So...” The prompt lingers in the air. Scott still doesn't remove his hand. “... No?” And damn if he doesn't look downright _disappointed_ at that.

Stiles finds it hard to say anything in edgewise, and he's feeling pretty good besides. “Well, okay, so like, I guess it's not too bad.” Vertigo spins somewhere behind his eyeballs, but not enough for him to lose his footing – he can still make a decision, and it's not a hard one. “Yeah, okay, cool. Whatever. After everything we've been through. Won't change anything, ri – _oh_.” His eyes widen. “Dude, some _warning_ ,” he huffs, but the protest is half-hearted at best, and he doesn't stop Scott when he pushes his hand beneath Stiles's boxers, and _still_ doesn't stop him when Scott wraps his hand around his cock.

It strikes Stiles how different it is from jerking himself off. The angle is different, and Scott doesn't pick just the right rhythm and the right grip, goes a bit softer than Stiles likes, a little slower, but the bit of frustration that builds up at that is blown away at the realization that it's all because it's _someone else_ stroking his dick, and hey, this might just be a really good day right now.

It's then that he realizes that Scott is hovering above him jerking him off while Stiles is just lying there with his arms pressed to his sides and gasping against Scott's mouth, and so he reaches for the front of Scott's jeans, unbuttons it, and slips a hand inside.

The smile on Scott's face right now looks different now from the ones he's been sporting for the past few days. Not wider, not larger, but _freer_ somehow, more sincere, with his eyes creasing in the corners, pupils blown but focused. Scott's not thinking about what happened at the motel right now, and Stiles knows he can't make the demons go away forever, but this is good for now, it helps, it's all good.

Scott's cock is hot when Stiles touches it, but he's had enough practice with dicks (or well, _a_ dick, singular) before that his hand fits around it naturally, thumb swiping over the tip and fingers tightly wrapped around the shaft, and wow. Wow, right, Scott's sixteen, too.

Stiles wonders if it should feel weirder than it is to have his best friend's hard cock in his hand, but soon realizes that the quest for any sort of examination requiring cool mathematical thought is doomed to go the way of The Ring (which is _down_ ), so he's just going to follow the Argent policy of 'shoot first, ask questions later' here.

“Yeah. Fuck, yeah.” Stiles rocks his hips into Scott's grip, and drops his forehead down to Scott's shoulder, pressing his face against the side of his neck and closing his eyes. “Fuck – little harder, come on, little harder, just a bit more tightly – oh _yeah_ , just like that, yeah.” Scott chuckles somewhere above him, but obliges and - wow, fuck, oh, yeah, _good_.

Scott's tugging on Stiles's jeans, and it takes Stiles a while to figure out that he's supposed to lift his ass so Scott can pull them down and get better access. Stiles does it enthusiastically enough that his cock ends up slipping out of Scott's grasp, prompting Stiles to give an impatient groan until Scott's hand finds it again.

“Yeah, _ah_.” Stiles tries his best not to forget to jerk off Scott at the same time, and squeezes him a bit more tightly. “Hey – you like it? Like it? Want it harder, slower, how?”

“Good, it's – good,” Scott says, and lowers himself on top of Stiles. Stiles can feel Scott almost lie down on top of him, and he dares to shoot a look down, to the hands they have wrapped around each other's dicks, both of which are red and glossy at the tips by now, and _fuck_ , the sight shouldn't be as hot as it is.

“Is it?” Stiles pants out the words. “ _Good_?”

“Yeah, yeah, just keep going – _hah_.” That right there was definitely a _moan_ coming from Scott, and Stiles feels the visceral thrill of masculine smugness tug up the corners of his mouth into a smirk. He's  _good_ at this.

Scott's good at it, too. Maybe a bit too good, really.

It's embarrassing that Stiles can already feel himself get close, and he bites down on his lower lip to keep himself from coming for just a little while longer. He sucks breath in through his teeth and moves his hand a little bit faster, tightens his grip. He thinks he can feel Scott's heart beating down there, just faint little vibrations that pulse against his palm. He starts to stroke Scott a little faster still, herded on by the sudden need to see Scott come first, because hey, this is still Scott, this is still his best friend, and they've always had a friendly rivalry thing going on there in most parts of their lives.

Scott seems to know what Stiles is doing because he lifts himself up a little straighter, fuses their eyes together. “Really?” Scott raises an eyebrow, grins, and gives Stiles a little twist coming from his wrist, and fuck, Stiles really likes it like that, and that's just freaking _unfair_ is what it is.

“Hah.” Stiles clenches his eyes shut. “ _God_ -” He attempts to pick up speed for the finish line, but finds that he can't cross it right now; Scott has him at his mercy, strokes him just hard and fast enough that Stiles can only moan, and he's almost there, almost, _almost -_

Stiles comes with a shudder and a groan, and can't resist but look down at his own kicking cock, can't do anything but watch how he spills into Scott's hand. One, two, three spurts – oh no, and a _fourth_ – and then it's done, and Stiles slumps back against the bed, says, “Goddamn, McCall,” and lavishes in post-coital bliss for a couple of beats before he remembers that Scott's not done yet.

Scott lets go, pulls himself up on his knees so he hovers a little higher up over Stiles. He's got a smug, satisfied look on his face, and Stiles makes a ' _tsssk_ ' sound at the back of his throat.

It won't take long for Scott to follow now, Stiles thinks, not now that Stiles can focus all the attention on him, even has a better angle now that he can sit up himself. Fatigue drips through Stiles's bones, and the whole thing is not as hot now that he's already come, but he refuses to think of it as awkward _now_ , when it's already as good as done. He watches Scott get closer, listens to his breathing get faster and more shallow, feels his cock swell and get harder. Watches how Scott rolls his eyes before he closes them. Sees how he bites his lower lip.

When Scott comes, his moan is quiet but drawn-out; he's not trying to cut it short but really riding it out, letting his head fall back and thrusting into Stiles's hand in broken motions. Stiles feels the warmth splatter against his hand – and yeah, this much is definitely familiar, that feeling of the spill – and when he's squeezed it all out of Scott, he removes his hand and holds it out to the side so as not to soil his sheets, and scoots up along the bed a bit.

Stiles doesn't say anything. Neither does Scott.

Stiles keeps tissues in the drawers of his bedside table, of course, so he one-handedly opens one and fishes out some tissues to clean himself with. He hands some to Scott, throws his used ones away when he's done, and then he collapses on his back and stares up at the ceiling, lazily pulling up his jeans and zipping them shut.

His hand still feels sticky.

_Now_ would be the time for awkwardness, Stiles supposes, if it's going to come at all. He listens to Scott lie down on the bed somewhere below him, and here they are, spread out like little snow angels on the pure white sheets, peaceful and spent and angelic and all.

They actually _did_ once make snow angels together. It's sort of wrong, and at the same time, it's not.

The first thing that Stiles says to break the silence is a long, heartfelt, “ _Fuck_.”

Stiles can actually hear Scott flinch at that. “Huh? What? _Where_?” 

“Fuck,” Stiles repeats. “Did we just – did we just – was that _sex_?” Stiles is torn between laughing hysterically and submitting an entry to fuckmylife dot com. “Did you just de-virginize me?”

Scott looks as if he's about to say that that's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard, but then pauses. “I – well. Maybe, I don't know? Was it, did that count?”

"I don't know," Stils says hotly. "Did it?"

"Maybe, but if so, then, um...accidentally?"

“ _Accidentally_?” Stiles sits up at that. Some sort of hysteria laps at his nerve endings. “'I accidentally a sex' is not a thing that really exists. It's just an internet meme.”

"... There's a meme like that?"

“ _Did_ it count, though? I mean there wasn't any – hey, _you're_ the not-virgin here, _you're_ supposed to know that stuff.”

“It's not like I ever did this with another dude before," Scott says, frown etched into his featured. "Anyway, it's your virginity, so shouldn't you determine if it's still there?”

“How? It's not like I can exactly just ask my body if it would prefer to still be virginal. 'Hello Stiles's body, do you determine that the sexual encounter that ended in orgasm does, indeed, constitute as sex?'”

“Jesus,” Scott says. Then he pauses, and Stiles can see that the chuckle starts somewhere in his belly, works its way up his chest, and spills out in small breaths. “Oh my God, I just – sorry for, uh, accidentally your virginity?” A pause. “I … guess?”

Stiles stares at him. Scott looks so disgustingly sincere that Stiles can't help but chuckle in return after a few more beats, shaking his head to himself. “Doesn't really matter, I guess." The words actually sit right. "The virgin sacrifice thing is done with, anyway.”

“Well, it _matters_...” Scott looks uncertain. He catches a _look_ from Stiles, and amends with a, “Or maybe not.”

They spend a few moments looking at each other, and Stiles suddenly remembers that the fucking TV is still on and that it's evening by now. “Gonna take a shower,” he says, and if he leaves the room a bit too quickly after that, it's entirely by accident.

Stiles doesn't think of much while he's showering. He washes his hair, and he's got the radio playing in the bathroom, so he sings along to it, low and growly and overdramatic like he always does in the shower. _Enjoy the Silence_ is the song, ironically enough, and when the song ends, Stiles decides that no, he really wouldn't.

Scott's sitting on the bed when Stiles comes back, all proper with his hands folded in his lap.

“Shower's free now,” Stiles says, unnecessarily.

So Scott goes and then he comes back, and Stiles is on the floor rifling through his DVD collection when he does.

Scott peeks at the DVD's with a certain look of foreboding on his face, and Stiles shrugs. “I think we've finally seen everything. I'm proud of you.”

Scott gives a smile in return and sits down on the bed, drying his hair with the towel. He hesitates, takes a look at Stiles. “So, about that -”

Stiles shrugs. “It's fine, dude. Sorry, temporary freak-out back there. Not gonna change anything. I mean, it was actually pretty, well." He pauses. "Okay, it was pretty awesome, kinda, and like I said, with all we've been through and all. How stupid would that be if _that_ were to be the thing that was, like, game-changing?”

“Yeah.” Scott seems to let that sink in, absently rubbing his hair. “All right.” He pauses again.

And Stiles _knows_ that look, he knows that fucking look: it's the guilty look, the look of the chronic hero character whose self-esteem hinges on doing everything in the fucking world right. It's just like that face that Scott once wore, that one time when they were in junior high and a bunch of jocks stole Stiles's comic books and Scott couldn't help him get them back because of his asthma, only a thousand times worse.

Stiles doesn't know what to do. They've already tried talking about it; they're fine, mostly. No, they _are_ , but -

Stiles looks down at his DVD covers, even though he knows them all by heart by now. “You're dealing. In your own way. That's what counts. You're fine, and we'll be there, right? Okay?”

Scott doesn't quite believe him, Stiles can tell. Doesn't quite believe him, but he knows that Scott believed him back then, outside that motel.

And that's enough, and always has been.

Stiles gets up and walks back over to Scott.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So after Motel California, I took to my tumblr, and basically banshee-screamed about my Sciles feels. I wanted to write something with Sciles, but couldn't think of any specific scenario I wanted to do for them, so I asked for prompts in the Sciles tag. I received several prompts, which were all slightly different in the tone they were asking for, but what they had in common was that they were all asking for post-Motel California Sciles, so naturally I was like, WOW. THAT SOUNDS LIKE A BRILLIANT IDEA, I'M TOTALLY GONNA DO THAT /o/, and then I, well, did. 
> 
> Needless to say, it all went downhill fast.
> 
> I - well, this is my first Teen Wolf fic, so that's a bit exciting. I definitely plan on writing more for this fandom; maybe I'll do a prompt thingy again on my tumblr. The url is beacockhills.tumblr.com, by the way.
> 
> Anyway. 
> 
> Yeah.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> P.S.: What happened to the bowl of popcorn on the bed? This fic's greatest mystery tbh.


End file.
